The Letter and the Legacy
by TheMinxy6
Summary: Six months since she moved on, and he hasn't. He visits her flat every day, one thing he needs to find and the other to leave behind: the letter and the legacy. Two shot.
1. The Letter

**Disclaimer: **I don't own A2A. If there was, I'd be tempted to have another series to sort a few issues out. *Post S3E8 fics on turn into start of S4*

**A/N: **Military campaign continues, this is going to be a two shot with the second part coming tomorrow or the day after. Soon, in any case. :) Hope you enjoy it, please R&R!

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_Tyler, Drake and Burton._

_The brother, the lover and the son._

**Chapter 1: The Letter**

Night time was when the world felt most true to itself- the stars in the sky were brighter then they had been before, intensified through truth, and the moon seemed dangerously large, almost as if this world was caving in on itself, forcing it closer.

He pulled the key from his pocket, his chest tightening as it did every time, shakily pushing the metal into the lock, _I should stop, turn back. . . I need to stop._ . . but he soon found himself stepping into her flat, slamming the thin door behind him. The smell of her hairspray and red wine hit his nostrils, the emotional impact like a punch in the stomach. He leant his head back and absorbed his surroundings; it still smelt just like her.

He still imagined her walking into the kitchen, her flimsy nightgown wrapped around her body, her hair in disarray and her face free of make up, chastising him for barging into her flat unannounced just as she was about to go to sleep. He'd gruffly reply, shove some wine into her hands and she'd roll her eyes, not knowing that he'd seen the secretive smile on her face as she went off to get the glasses.

It'd been over six months since she'd left, and every day he'd come back to her flat, barely touching anything as he stalked around the darkened rooms, each day seeing something he hadn't seen before: a necklace he recognised draped over the side of a chair, the print of her lips on the edge of a glass, an empty cassette box of _True_ . . . his heart ached when he thought of the last time he was here, dancing with her. . . holding her close. . .

He unscrewed the cap off the bottle in his hand, taking a swig of the amber liquid and grimacing at the taste, placing it carefully on the coffee table so it didn't touch anything else. It felt like he was in a museum, observing relics of the past, each little thing telling him something, creating this unreachable picture.

He thought he could do this on his own. Letting Sam go had been hard enough, but he'd left Manchester behind to cope with it, fled to London- a big city where he could forget; he'd always liked to believe that Ray and Chris had been the ones to ask to come with him, but really it'd been the other way round.

Back then he'd just about managed, the three of them bringing their Northern edge to the poncy bright lights of the capital, covering up all the pain with bravado and a whole selection of other wanker-worthy qualities. Alex had got him sussed from day one though: "Was that you Gene, trying to be cool?" she'd screeched at him, playing the game by her own rules as she marched off, sunglasses donned and gun in hand. . .

He padded over to her room, gently pushing open the door hopelessly believing that her leaving had just been some horrible nightmare, and her beautiful form was in fact curled up in bed in some god-awful pair of pyjamas.

The room was empty, duvet cover in a pile at side of the bed, just like yesterday, and the day before. . .

He felt his throat constrict, his eyes stinging for a millisecond before he blinked rapidly, creeping over to the wardrobe and opening it up. He felt his heart shudder, some of his spare clothes here from before she arrived, her own clothing right next to his, huddled together as if they were scared of being parted.

He remembered the first couple of days she was here, and she came down in those skin tight jeans and one of those off-the-shoulder tops that she favoured so much; he knew then he was sunk, his whole body magnetised towards her, his soul unbeknownst to him steadily intertwining with her own. By the time they'd both realised their own feelings, it was too late.

His stomach churned as he pulled out her white jacket, running his hands across the smooth leather, noting the slight red stain she hadn't been able to remove from the inside. He saw a blue and black check shirt, and he remembered her wearing it; she'd asked him to "let her in"- her beauty stark, the way her big brown eyes stared up at him, the ever-so-slight hopeful curl of her lips. He felt sick, giving into the urge and clutching her jacket close to his chest, closing his eyes and pressing it to his nose and his mouth as his whole body shuddered with need and loss. _Alex. . ._

Keats had told him he'd forget Alex, he'd forget everyone he'd ever loved. His voice had taunted him, laughed at him, _". . . and eventually you'll forget her, you'll forget how much you loved her, what you let go. . ."_

He'd thrown the tape across CID, utter anger and panic surging through him, the poison dripping in Keats' voice tainting his ears even as it smashed into a thousand pieces, D.I. Burton had looked at him with a lofty confusion, raising his eyebrow before picking up his pen, later giving Gene a more concerned look through the glass of his office.

Gene wouldn't forget them. He wouldn't forget her _ever. _He hadn't forgotten Sam, hadn't forgotten all Sam had taught him, everything about loyalty, and being your best, and never to accept something if it's not good enough- even when we don't think _we're _good enough.

He knew he'd never forget Alex either, she had taught him too. He knew he'd never have told her that if she was still here, he'd taken that for granted, but he'd tell her a thousand times over if that meant she'd come back to him. She'd taught him more about himself than anyone. He'd let her in, and he'd always know that. She'd be the first and last. His only one.

It was times like these that he didn't understand how he let her go. He thought he'd always belong in this world, but without her, nothing seemed right anymore, nothing seemed real. He'd come into CID every morning, still expecting to see her rubbing her face from falling asleep at her desk, or stalking in an hour late looking as rough as hell, but still somehow bloody gorgeous. Whatever motive, whatever reason had been behind his existence here was fading fast; he was seeing the cracks in his "reality", the truth about his situation still firmly planted in his mind. A part of him knew that as soon as she'd disappeared into the Railway Arms, his heart had gone in with her.

A sad smile graced his lips as he spotted one of his shirts in a crumpled heap by her bed, a wave of regret washing over him as he picked it up and lay it over her pillow, imagining her wearing it, pottering around the flat as he watched her from _their _bed. The sleeves would've been too long for her arms and covered her slender hands; she'd look coyly up at him as she sipped on her mug of tea, drinking his own as he curled his other arm around her waist, pulling her to him. Another one of his dreams untouched.

He was about to leave the room, but his whole body froze at what he saw right in the corner of his eye; the edge of a white envelope, tucked amongst a pile of books on her bed side table, his heart clenching . . ._oh god is it? I thought she said it was in her desk. . ._

He drew it carefully out from between the pages of a novel near the bottom of the pile, a trembling breath escaping his lungs as he saw his own name scrawled in her fierce hand. He'd been lying if he hadn't said he'd already looked for it, he'd gone through every single bloody inch of her desk, he'd looked here too, but obviously not hard enough. But maybe he wasn't meant to find it until now.

He walked back out into the living room, jacket still in hand and placing it over his knees as he sunk gently into the sofa, filling the dent he'd left here half a year ago, his feet on the coffee table and a bottle in his hand. He could still make out the spot where she'd curled near him.

His breath quickened, his heart starting to convulse as he brought an unsteady hand to the corner of the envelope, slowly tearing it open and pulling out the sheet of writing paper, his heart filled with a painful glow as his eyes flicked over her handwriting, the agonising familiarity of it, although the words seemed almost unreal- as if written by some intangible figment of his imagination.

_24__th__ November, 1982._

_Gene,_

_I know you don't like all the emotional stuff- that's not how you do things- so I'll try and keep this relatively short and painless. _

_Writing your letter is not like writing letters for the other three; I gave them advice, my observations about them. There would be no point in me advising you, because you wouldn't change for anyone, and that's what makes you special._

_When I first arrived in your world, I felt so lost. I may have acted like a complete cow sometimes, but it was mainly because I was so fearful. I thought I had to fight you, in some ways just to clear the guilt about leaving my daughter alone, but it turned out to be quite the opposite; you're my constant Gene, the only person here who I've felt truly connected too. Without you, I fear I may not have lasted half as long as I hoped to, and I pray that the rest of my time in this world is spent by your side. _

_You make people feel safe, which is a rare thing I think, you're a complex human being who people can't help but be drawn too. Sam wrote many things about you, all sorts of things I know I should hate- a masochist, a misogynist and I can't even remember what else- but none of that really means anything. I've told you before and I'll tell you again: you're a good, kind, decent man, Gene, don't tell yourself otherwise; you've lived through some difficult times, but please don't let it change you._

_If you're reading this, I assume that means I never got a chance to say good bye to you properly, and for that I shall always be sorry. If I were to tell you one thing Gene, know that I will miss you. I will miss you, and I shall never forget you; I hope you will always remember me fondly._

_Yours forever,_

_Alex xxx_

Gene read it over several times, his tired eyes listening to her words on the paper. His heart cried out in loss and loneliness, his face an unreadable mask bar his silver eyes that flickered with remembrance, with utter need.

He did not know how long he'd sat there, the letter like an open moth in his lap, eventually letting his head fall back and tumbling into an uneasy sleep.

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**A/N: **Part 2 to be up within the next couple of days, hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I just remembered Alex's letter from series 2 last night, and just had to get it into a post S3E8 fic. Please review!


	2. The Legacy

**Disclaimer: **I don't own A2A. But I take full responsibility for my weirdly written disclaimer on the first chapter. Blame my penchant for a shot or two when I'm with friends. ;)

**A/N: **Hello everyone! Here's the second part of this two shot, I hope you like it! Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first part, and please review again and let me know what you think! A lot of people also story alerted/favourited it as well but didn't review, and I'd love to here what you think too! :)

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**Chapter 2: The Legacy**

It had stopped raining earlier, and for that he was thankful. That was one of the things he didn't understand about this world- it only ever seemed to rain or if not, the sky would be smothered in great, heavy clouds. He could count on one hand how many times he'd seen the sun; it was like the world was grieving.

The night was cool, the sky atypically clear; he looked up, the moon leaning in as if trying to listen to a great secret, the stars twinkling like fallen tears. His breath swirled in wisps in front of his face as his shoved his hands deeper into his pale jacket, quickly entering the side door next to Nico's restaurant- desperate to get out of the cold- the name of the previous restaurant, _Luigi's, _not yet painted over by the new owner.

David Burton walked up the narrow stair case, coming to a small landing with a few identical doors. He spotted the flat, a file tucked under his arm, clearing his throat as he knocked on the door.

Nothing for a few seconds, so he knocked harder, stopping only until he heard a shuffling on the other side of the door. He schooled his features, not sure how his boss would react, the shock at the older man's dishevelled appearance when he answered the door only reaching his face for a moment.

"Guv. . . I've got the files you wanted-"

"Do you know what time it is?" He barked, Burton looking down somewhat awkwardly, spotting a woman's leather jacket under his arm, and immediately thinking he may have interrupted something.

"It's, erm, quite a bit past 2am. . . Sorry sir, I just thought it seemed quite urgent earlier so I stayed behind. . ."

He saw his Guv's features change- brimming anger to tired resignation- he sighed, grumbled something and then walked back into the living room, the front door left open as David slowly crept in, clicking the door behind him and following his Guv.

He hadn't expected Hunt to live in a place like this- although apparently he didn't, Poirot just said he spent a hell of a lot of his time here- it was too. . . _feminine _for it to be his own was too well organised, too well thought out for his Guv to live here. Poirot had mentioned something about the previous D.I. A female D.I.; Burton presumed that must be his partner.

"So the missus isn't in then?" Burton chirped, desperately trying to lighten the mood until he saw Hunt visibly wince, a painful expression flashing across his eyes as he poured some scotch into two glasses and thrust one into the younger man's hand, Burton perching nervously on a nearby chair as his Guv slumped down on the far side of the sofa.

"No. . .no she's not here." He said, the broken tone of his voice both concerning and intriguing him in equal measure; normally you'd only see these moments of vulnerability if chance was on your side.

"Gone away?" he asked.

Burton saw him look at an open envelope on the table, suddenly cringing inside at his own tactlessness; whatever had happened, it looked like she'd gone and wasn't ever returning.

Hunt changed the subject, Burton's question clearly hitting too close to home, "Let's see these files then, you gobby shite."

Burton rolled his eyes good naturedly, the tired tone of the man's voice not carrying the 'insult' as it normally did. He leant over and handed them to him, before lifting the glass to his lips and downing the contents of his glass.

"Blimey, forgot how much of a drinker you were." Hunt remarked, not lifting his eyes off the file, "My previous D.I. was like that."

Burton knew that he meant _her_, but wondered if Hunt knew he'd made the link; he tested the water; "What was he like?"

"She, actually. Posh, mouthy tart." He mumbled, although he couldn't hide the soft edge of tenderness in his voice, "Turned up here making a scene like you, acting like an arrogant twat, blabbering away with her psycho-bollocks, and winding me up morning, noon and night. . . She settled down though, took a bit longer than you, she started to work _with _me rather than _against _me. Who's this tosser you've dug up here?"

"Evan Kensington, father was a Law Lord about twenty years ago, son was following in his father's footsteps before he ran off the rails about the same time his father resigned. . ." Burton mindlessly rattled off, still intrigued, "So where'd your D.I. go?"

"Off to a better place, along with three other members of my team. Never been the same without them." He replied, his eyes downcast. "Didn't want her to leave though."

"Were you two together then. . . like. . . you know?" Burton asked, raising an eyebrow, "Is that why she had to transfer?"

Gene let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair, "Never thought of it like that, but maybe you're right. We were on the brink of something, me and her, or I like to believe so anyway. . . then she had to leave."

David nodded silently, the older man's words sinking in. He felt like a twat now, although waking up in 1983 after being beaten into a coma had certainly been a shock, his Guv had obviously been coming to terms with a great change in his own life too, and he'd somehow managed to keep the department running. He had a lot of respect for Hunt, putting up with his whining about his iPhone like a petulant teenager.

He'd learnt a lot from him too, how important it was to keep a team together, pull those back on board who'd fallen by the wayside. He and Hunt had slightly different operating methods, sure, but both of them had a deep rooted hatred of those purposefully trying to dismantle the department. Their jobs were difficult enough as it was without some baby faced imbecile sticking their nose in.

He'd thought about trying to get home- he'd got messages through his TV when his inevitably bludgeoned and deformed body had been found- but he knew in his heart of hearts he didn't really want to get back, or if he'd even get the chance. He'd been shoved into a boarding school aged 5, had made few friends and had never been close to his parents- he'd grown up angry and bitter with the world, become a nihilistic bastard that made him unbearable to everyone. He knew he'd changed for the better here, met more people that meant something to him in six months than he ever had in the 30 something years of his previous life. It was like his own strange little paradise.

Hunt sniffed suddenly, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly, "Never really spoken about the old team with anyone. . ."

"How many of them were there?"

"Well, in Manchester it was Sam, Ray, Chris and Annie. . . here it's been Alex, Ray, Chris and Shaz. . . even Viv's gone."

Burton had never seen his Guv look so utterly haunted, he looked hopelessly isolated; a man who'd been steadily crushed by grief. He wondered why all of them had left him at once, leaving him completely alone?

"Must've been hard, having them all go at once."

"Yeah. . .all of them have to spread their wings at some point. I can't hold them back forever it seems."

"Couldn't you have gone with them?"

There was a pause, Burton watching as Hunt thought something over, his gaze flicking between the leather jacket and the open envelope. The pained expression in the man's eyes was the closest Burton had ever got to _really_ knowing what lurked behind his 'daily face'- the desperation, loss and love there making his own heart sink.

And then he turned and looked at him, _really_ looked at him. Burton felt exposed, the older man viewing him critically, as if he were looking into his very soul.

"David." He suddenly said, the use of his first name startling the younger man, "I, err, I know this may sound a bit frank. . ."

"Ok. . . ?" he replied, his eyebrows crinkling in bemusement.

Gene rubbed his face in exhaustion, sighing heavily, "I just want you to know that I don't know how long I'm going to remain here myself- I think my time might be running out. . ."

"Running out? What do you mean?" Burton asked, his eyes widening at this speculation.

"I'm getting old, Burton. I have to leave at some point. It's just a case of when."

"But you're not _that _old. Surely you're not old enough to retire yet?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But we as police officers should know it better than anyone- we cannot forever cheat death."

Burton's mouth fell open, his eyebrows furrowing, "I- I don't understand. Cheat death?"

Gene sighed, leaning on his knees and clasping his hand together, his eyes still resting on the envelope, "One day soon, when I'm truly past my best and a step behind the world, I'll get stabbed, or knocked over or gunned down. I'd rather call it a day myself then have the devil to pay when I'm lying on a cold, grey slab."

Burton merely stared at him; Gene glanced at him before continuing.

"I'll either have to resign or transfer at some point soon- I might even go without warning one day. . . and when that day comes, would you. . . would you mind if I recommended you as my replacement?"

Burton's face was a picture, leaning back on his chair slightly in surprise before he quickly masked his shock, "I'd. . . I'd be privileged, if I'm honest. I mean I was a D.C.I. before I came to. . . to London. . . but are you sure?"

"I know a good copper when I find one. The question is, are _you_ sure?" Gene asked, his steely eyes fixing to the younger man's paler ones, "I need you to think _very _carefully about this. You have to know that at Fenchurch, it's not just a job Burton; it's a way of life. It could mean you're here for a while, because it's not just something you can hop off when you don't fancy it and life throws you in the shit. I know you'll keep this department strong and keep the team together, which is the most important thing, can you promise me you will always try and do that?"

Burton nodded, the look in Hunt's eyes displaying the extent of the honour, the extent of the duty he was about to inherit, "Yes. . .of course. You know how much I value this department." He heard himself say; he'd made up his mind, he was going to stay, at least for the foreseeable future.

Hunt's expression was firmly set in a pout, but his eyes seemed to clear, almost as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He seemed satisfied with his response, and Burton let out a silent sigh of relief. Hunt settled back into the sofa, a tiny, hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he closed the file and held it back for David to take.

"Thank you." He said simply, David nodding awkwardly in reply before taking the files and showing himself out of the flat, an incredible sense of responsibility washing over him.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

It was less than a month later when Gene Hunt disappeared. He'd resigned a day earlier without so much as a word and left. Burton had later found a note taped to the bottom of his desk, sitting down in his new glass office and watching the "D.C.I. Hunt" sign be replaced by "D.C.I. Burton".

_David, _

_Sorry if this comes as a shock, didn't really want to bugger off without saying good bye, just the way it happened to turn out. _

_Take care of my office, and the Merc of course. I even left my gun in the bottom drawer for you to have as I don't think I'll have use for it anymore. Granted, you were always a better shot than me anyway, (and you never let me forget it!). _

_Remember to look out for all your team, help those that even lose their way; everyone is worth saving. _

_Gene Hunt._

Burton smiled to himself, the sun streaming through the half open blinds as he folded the note and tucked it into his inside pocket, leaning back on the black leather chair and observing his little kingdom. The moment didn't last however, standing up immediately and moving out of his office when he saw a woman walk tentatively into CID wearing acid wash jeans and an off the shoulder top, her blonde hair curly in a high pony tail. She looked alarmed, her ice blue eyes looking up at the checkerboard ceiling.

"Can I help you?"

The woman looked uncertain, slowly pulling her badge out of her pocket and holding it up, "D.I. Vanessa Janslow. I think I put in for it?"

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_Nelson patted him on the shoulder, laughing as he pushed open the door, his whole body flooding with relief and happiness._

_He couldn't help but grin as Sam walked up to him, grasping his hand and slapping him on the shoulder, shaking his head at how long he took._

_He felt his heart beat against his ribs as he saw her from across the bar, same as ever, her eyes shining and never leaving his face; they were by each other in a second._

"_Alex. . ." he whispered, cupping her face. "I'm sorry. . . I'm sorry. . ."_

_She smiled up at him, barely shaking her head as a single tear escaped. She interlaced her fingers with his own, pressing her soft lips to his._

"_All that matters is that you came."_

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**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed it. :) This chapter was far angsty-er a couple of days ago, but I can't bare any more depression for G/A for a long time yet I think, so it's got happier. Also hope I gave D.I. iPhone a suitable bit of padding out too, because although he seemed like an absolutely insufferable moron at the end of S3E8, everyone has the potential, right? :P Please review; it means a lot.


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